Comfortable
by Obi the Kid
Summary: (Season 8). Takes place between the second and third trials. A little brotherly fluff. Sam finds comfort.


**Title**: Comfortable

**Author:** Obi the Kid

**Rating:** PG

**Summary:** (Season 8). Takes place between the second and third trials. A little brotherly fluff. Sam finds comfort.

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**DEDICATION:** Too all those fans who enjoy SPN without getting into the brother wars and who or who doesn't have the biggest storyline…the same arguments heard every year. And for all those who feel, like me, that Dean's role as protector is one of the shows greatest assets. Yes, spoilers have started for Season 9 and already the bickering has begun over who does or doesn't have a storyline…I personally am here just to enjoy the show that is still the best on TV and I hope there are others out there too who just love the show for what it is, what it will be and all the joy it's given us over 8 seasons so far.

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Miserable wasn't the word for how he felt. It was ten times that and beyond, but he was trying to make do by sticking his head into books and focusing on the task he'd given himself. Until Kevin came through with the third trial, he had to do something to keep his mind focused on anything other than what he felt inside. It worked, to an extent, and then it didn't. The bulky and aged book in his hands eventually tumbled to the floor and Sam curled his long frame onto the couch, tucking as far under the blanket as he could. Pain. Chills. Fever. If it was on a list of ailments, he probably had it. Or at least it felt that way.

Huddled into the corner of the couch, Sam laid his head on the back cushion, blankly staring at the TV screen in front of him. A show was on. Something familiar. One that he and Dean had watched as kids from whatever crap hotel room they were stowed in at the time. He knew the show; was certain of it. But he couldn't recall much more than that. In the midst of his trial-driven illness, even the name and the characters escaped him.

He tried to close his eyes. Just for a few minutes. Yes. A few minutes of sleep would help. Then he could resume his work on the Men of Letters research he'd been studying. Sleep was elusive though as his head pounded in protest.

Then his stomach grumbled in need.

And as if on cue, Dean arrived from the kitchen. Sam watched him for a minute. The look on his brother's face – Sam could see himself in that look; a mirror image of his current feelings of misery. Dean was holding a large plastic cup in his hand. Sam gave him a weak, 'hey'.

"Hey yourself, man. You look like complete crap."

"You should see the other guy."

"Here," Dean said, holding out the cup. "Drink this. And don't give me the not hungry speech. This isn't food, well, not anymore. Maybe you can't eat, but you can drink something substantial before you keel over completely."

Sam grabbed the tall cup in both hands and saw its contents.

"It's pink."

"That's good, Mr. Obvious. Drink it. All of it."

Holding his nose to it, Sam responded with, "Smells like rotten meat."

At this point, Dean had taken a seat on the coffee table directly in front of his little brother. "As does everything to you right now, but this'll taste good, I swear. It's a smoothie."

Sam's tired eyebrows arched up. "A what?"

"A smoothie. You know, that frozen fruity drink crap you love so much."

"How'd you…Dean, we don't have a blender. Or fruit."

"We do and shut up and drink."

"But…how…what's in it?"

Sam was wary. The last time Dean had tried to feed him, he'd been served a plate full of peanut butter cups, jerky and a half drunk beer. Suddenly there was a giant fruit smoothie in front of him?

"Dean…"

"Trust me, Sam, okay? I'm not trying to kill you with fruit. In that cup, is your temporary magic pill. Something that'll help you feel better. Banana, strawberries, yogurt, crushed ice and because you're my favorite little brother…a fat spoonful of Cool Whip."

"Cool Whip?" Sam made a face.

"It was there. I tossed it in."

Mustering the energy needed to use the straw, Sam tasted the drink. It_ had_ smelled like rotten meat, but it actually did taste like a smoothie. So despite his confusion, he inhaled more, the coolness comfortable and soothing his raw throat.

"Where'd you get the blender, Dean?"

"While you were dead to the world yesterday evening, I made a run."

"But…a blender?" Non-belief continued to reign.

"I had a weak moment, okay? And this nesting thing won't go away, damn it! So yes, I bought the two things you thought you'd never seen in my possession, ever! A blender and fruit. Keep drinking."

Before long, Sam had finished half the cup and kept going.

"Good, huh?"

"Surprisingly so."

The coffee table now vacated in favor of another cushion on the couch, Dean sat next to his brother and glanced at the program on TV.

"No way! Miami Vice? Really? And the early years when he was driving the Daytona Spider. Sweet car. We used to watch this every Friday night, remember? An escape kinda thing, and it usually helped us deal with Dad leaving and not knowing when or if he'd be back. Bad ass music. Bad ass cars. Bad ass suits. Bad ass guns. Bad ass bad guys. That whole no sock thing. Alligator on the boat. This show was awesome."

"Yeah, it was." Sam remembered. Dean had, in a way, used the show as a security blanket of sorts for him, as Sam would often fall asleep halfway through, then would wake up only to hear Dean say_ 'Go back to sleep, Sammy. I got this,_' giving Sam the safety and security to close his eyes again. Dad was gone to unknown parts to battle who knew what, but Dean was there.

Sam's lips turned up in a tiny grin at the memory before saying, "Marathon's playin'."

"Are you serious? I'm there. Let me go grab a beer. You want more smoothie?"

Sam didn't really. He'd finished this one and admitted to himself that it had made him feel a tiny bit better, but another one? Then the look on Dean's face - hopeful now. Encouraging? He said yes.

"Sure."

Ten minutes later, Dean returned with a pink refill in one hand and a cold beer in another.

"There ya go, Sammy."

"Thanks."

Kicking back, Dean crossed his feet on the table and settled in to catch up on the show he'd loved so much. He stole a glance over to Sam now and then and eventually took the unfinished smoothie out of his hand, seeing that his exhausted little brother was fading fast.

Sam had re-curled himself and settled his head back onto the cushion again, trying hard to keep his eyes open, to keep watching those old crime fighting adventures of Crockett and Tubbs – to keep Dean company - but it wasn't to be.

"Sammy, maybe we should move you to your bedroom, huh?"

"No, s'okay, Dean. Comfortable here."

Dean took that meaning at face value, that the couch, the blanket, the position…comfortable. But in Sam's mind, the he'd given that single word a multitude of layers. In their ultra-safe new home, on the welcoming couch, watching an old favorite on TV and being cared for by his big brother. All of those things were comfortable. And comfortable allowed Sam a period of sleep.

The TV stayed on all night. Episode after episode of Miami Vice screeched and pounded through the screen. Sam knew because it woke him every so often and he'd glance at the brightly drawn characters, fast cars, loud guns and sometimes silly dialogue. Then he'd glance over at Dean, still fully digested in the show however many hours and episodes later. Each time, he waited for Dean to recognize he was awake and for him to say, _'Go back to sleep, Sammy. I got this.'_

Only then, would he drift off again.

In the world of the Winchesters where they had so little, but gave so much, there was something to be said for comfortable.

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The end


End file.
